


Spectators Rarely Stay On the Sidelines

by Batshit_Bogs



Series: Through the Mirror [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Anxious Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, It doesnt go well, Reverse Robins AU, bruce wayne is a tired parent, damian and bruce just make cameos, damian is a brat (but he's getting better), duke thomas deserves more love, i hope i'm writing him correctly, jack and janet don't have rights, no beta we die like robins, same with steph and janet, their names are Duke and Steph, tim finds out who Batman and Nightling are, tim has two friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26630530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batshit_Bogs/pseuds/Batshit_Bogs
Summary: Some people propose the idea of Bruce Wayne as Batman, but those people are always laughed off. Brucie Wayne, bumbling playboy as the Batman? Ridiculous. Up until a day ago, Tim would’ve laughed too.He’s not laughing now.-Tim Drake never expected his night hobby to go so far.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Duke Thomas
Series: Through the Mirror [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937332
Comments: 19
Kudos: 212





	Spectators Rarely Stay On the Sidelines

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I wrote this in two days. The first draft was a little of 6000 words, and now it's a little of 8000. It was a bitch to write and fought me every step of the way
> 
> Originally this was supposed to go into Tim's death, but it went an ENTIRELY different direction and now it's this. Though it _has_ given me some ideas for more oneshots, so...yeah
> 
> Enjoy? I wrote this while sleep deprived lmao
> 
>   
>   
> **CW**  
> 
> 
> _\- blood mentions_  
>  _\- stress induced vomiting_  
>  _\- some swearing_
> 
> please let me know if I missed any warnings

Tim doesn’t want to be Wren. 

Really, he doesn’t.

Sure, it’s every kid's dream to be the city’s small, vicious vigilante that spends his nights swinging between buildings and dealing justice to the wicked. When the other kids are out on the playground, playing heroes and villains, they all fight over who gets to be Wren. Tim is always the odd one out on that. He prefers to sit and spectate or read a book.

Tim holds no illusions that being a vigilante in Gotham is a gritty, dangerous job. It holds no glamor or pleasure. He’s known that ever since he was seven, when he saw Batman investigating a gritty murder scene with his own eyes. There was blood everywhere, and the Commissioner was asking him about leads, saying that this was the third body in a week. 

That was the second time Tim saw Batman in person. Sitting there in the shadows, trying not to throw up from the stench of blood, he realized that Batman wasn’t Batman because he wanted to be. No sane person would willingly get deeply involved with these cases for free. 

Batman is Batman because Gotham _needs_ him to be, simple as that. 

Wren, on the other hand...Tim isn’t sure why he’s partners with Batman. One, he’s clearly a kid, from the few grainy images people catch of the tiny vigilante. Tim has to wonder how he can stomach the grittiness of Gotham’s criminal world. Of course Tim has no idea what his background is, and for all he knows Wren is some sort of _assassin_ or something. 

Wren makes an official debut a year after his first outing - which was unofficial, and an incident of urban legend. No one can _prove_ that Wren is the kid that murdered those people, but it’s not like it matters anymore. Wren doesn’t kill, just like Batman. Though he is a touch..unnecessarily violent. 

Still, Wren is quickly losing his rep as ‘maybe the kid that killed five people’ as he gains a positive following online. So far Tim hasn’t been able to catch a photograph of him, and the few glimpses in person he gets are far and few between. 

It doesn’t deter him, though - Tim is a patient kid. One of these days Batman and Wren will pass close enough to his hiding places along their patrol route that he’ll be able to snap a clear picture

**⤘⤘⤘ -**

The first time Tim sees Wren in person (the vigilante is almost more elusive than Batman himself), he’s hiding among garbage bags from a couple of teens that wanted to nab him for his nice shoes. Tim bolted as soon as they started walking towards him, and had ducked into the first alley he reached. 

The end of the alley is devoid of light, and Tim would have gone for the safety of shadows if he hadn’t been too scared to think. Instead he pulls the hood of his black sweater over his head and huddles into the garbage bags as best he can, hoping he blends in. 

He clutches his camera bag like a lifeline as the teens get closer to the alley, jeering. They slide into the mouth of the alley and creep forward, elbowing each other with predatory grins as they scan all possible hiding places. 

They’re going to find him.

Tim clasps his hands over his mouth to muffle his breathing and tries to hold back the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. 

There’s nothing he can do. A few more steps and they’ll spot him.

Bizarrely enough, Tim can only think about how disappointed his parents will be. They’re in Italy right now, unaware that their son is about to die in one of the most undignified ways possible. Out in The Bowery, miles from where he should be, hiding among garbage bags as a couple of teens search him out to kill him for _shoes._

An end completely unworthy of a Drake.

“Hey, you!” The pink-haired teen barks.

Tim flinches and waits for them to drag him out into the open. It doesn’t happen. They’re a few steps away from his hiding place, peering down the alley. Tim follows their gazes and nearly flinches again.

There’s someone standing just in the shadows at the end of the alley. They look short, and their form is covered by a cloak of sorts. They blend into the shadows perfectly - Tim hadn’t even seen them. 

The hood tilts in the teens’ direction.

“Yeah, you,” Pinky continues. “You see a kid run through here?”

The second teen waves his braceleted hand flat over the ground at the height of his ribs. “About yea high, scrawny as fuck, shiny new shoes?”

The hood slowly turns from side to side. 

“You sure?”

“What do you want with them?” the hooded person asks in a voice squeaky with youth. 

Pinky nudges Bracelets and mutters just within Tim’s earshot, “This dweeb’s just a brat, too.”

Bracelets snickers and says loud enough for the hooded kid to hear, “His shoes could get us hot meals for the next week. That, and a coupla’ guys could stand to have some fun around here.”

“That is a pitiful excuse for the tormentation of a child,” the hooded kid snarls. “Cretins like you deserve to be squashed like the worms that you are.”

Bracelets rolls his eyes. “Uh, yeah, okay Hamlet.” He taps his friend’s shoulder. “C’mon, we can have fun with some other idiot.”

“We could. Then again…” Pinky rubs his hands together and sways forward a step, sizing up the hooded kid. “We could have just as much fun with you.”

Oh, no. Tim squeezes his fingers so hard that it hurts as his eyes flick from the teens to the kid. He should do something. Distract them. Be something _other_ than a spectator for once in his life.

The kid turns to fully face them. Their cloak - no, a _cape -_ falls to the side to reveal a sword in their crimson-gloved grip. 

Not just any sword. A _katana._

Tim’s breath catches in his throat as his eyes blow wide. No way. The chances of this being who Tim thinks they are is astronomically low. 

The teens’ leers drop instantly.

“Whoa there,” Bracelets says, holding his hands up placatingly, “we were just jokin’ around.”

“Y-yeah, jokin’,” Pinky chimes in. “No need to get dicey.”

Wren rolls his shoulders and starts stalking towards them with a vicious hiss of, “I despise jokes.” 

Each step towards them carries dangerous intent as the dim light catches on the metal of the katana. The hood lifts just enough to reveal white lenses narrowed in a black mask and lips twisted in a snarl.

The teens swear and nearly trip over each other in their scramble to get away. Bracelets tears around the corner so fast that he bounces off the streetlamp, and right as Pinky turns, Wren throws something. Pinky stumbles with a loud cry of pain when it hits his arm, then disappears after his friend. 

It’s all Tim can do to not start laughing hysterically. That just happened - it’s _still happening._

“Wren,” comes a gravelly voice from the dark end of the alley.

Tim’s heart drops from his throat into his stomach. He knows that voice, and while it makes sense (Wren never strays far from his keeper), part of him is having trouble processing this. 

Wren stops his advancement after the teens with an annoyed sigh. 

Batman himself materializes from the shadows with a growl of, “That wasn’t necessary.”

Wren rests his katana on his shoulder and turns to face his mentor, every inch of him bleeding confidence. “They deserve to be punished.”

“They hadn’t done anything.”

“What is it you’re always saying, Father? ‘We must stop crime at its source’?”

Tim just barely holds back a startled gasp. He’s read countless theories on the relationship between Gotham’s vigilantes, but to hear Wren confirm it _out loud?_ Batman has a small, vicious, vigilante son. Tim feels lightheaded. 

Batman sighs. “You know the deal, Wren.” 

Tim can’t see through the mask, but he’s pretty sure Wren is rolling his eyes. “Had I not threatened them, they would have continued their search for the child they mentioned.”

Somehow Tim becomes even more still. They really have no idea he’s sitting less than ten feet away from their conversation. Isn’t Batman supposed to be a detective?

“And the batarang?” Batman asks, sounding every inch an exasperated parent. 

Wren hesitates. “They referred to me as ‘Hamlet’ by way of insult. Shakespearean works are not to be taken lightly, nor insulted, as they are peak -”

“Son.” Batman crosses his arms. “Someone insulting your favorite author is no reason to maim them.”

“I did not _maim_ anyone. His shoulder shall be fine. Maiming is classified as a wound that causes permanent damage to a part of the body, such as severing a limb. Which I did not.”

The ‘ _this time’_ goes unsaid. Tim blanches, recalling the news reports from a year before Wren appeared. Five common criminals dead in an alley, murdered with a katana. The crime scene pictures gave Tim nightmares for months.

“Wren, we do not maim nor harm individuals who have done nothing deserving it. That does not include -” Batman adds quickly as Wren opens his mouth to protest, “- being insulted.”

Wren scowls and taps his sword against his shoulder. “Tt.”

Tim blinks at the sudden sound. It takes him a second to realize Wren made it - what a unique scoff. Or verbal tic. It’s hard to tell.

“It’s time to wrap up patrol,” Batman says.

“It’s been an uneventful evening anyway,” Wren mutters, slipping his katana into the sheath strapped to his back.

“If you’d like, we can stop for ice cream on the way back.”

Wren makes the ‘tt’ sound again as he brushes past Batman. “Don’t patronize me, Father. It’s unbecoming.”

Batman huffs as he follows his son, but the short exhale holds just enough humor for Tim to realize it was a _laugh._ Both vigilantes vanish into the shadows, and a second later there’s the _hss_ of their grapples firing.

Tim waits another full minute before gasping in the first full breath in what feels like ages. He uncurls, staring up at the smoggy sky high above as his mind and heart races. The weight of his camera bag in his hands feels like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality. 

There is no way that just happened. There is _no freaking_ _way_ that Batman and Wren had a full conversation right in front of him without even knowing he was there. Not just that, but Wren might have just saved Tim’s life. 

Tim wishes he could’ve gotten a picture - he’s never been that close to either of them. The detail would have been phenomenal. 

He lays among the trash for another few minutes as he collects himself, then pushes himself up and staggers out of the alley to make his way to the nearest bus station. His legs don’t feel like they’re working properly. Something glints on the ground as Tim leaves the alley.

It’s the batarang Wren threw. 

Tim crouches and gingerly picks it up. He turns it this way and that, inspecting it under the light of the streetlamp. It’s professionally made, by the looks of it, with smooth, matte metal. The edge of one of the wings has dried blood on it, which is cleanable.

After a cautious glance at the rooftops Tim slips the batarang into his camera bag and hurries on his way. 

Once Tim is on the bus to Bristol he finally lets himself relax. He might not go out for a few weeks after this - it was too close of a call. That, and Tim really wants to spend some time researching Wren and piecing together who he is as a vigilante.

Oh, and he needs to buy shoes that don’t act like a ‘rich kid, please mug’ sign.

  
  
**⤘⤘⤘ -**

A few weeks after Tim listens in on Batman and Wren, he gets his first clear picture of the two of them together. 

It’s right after a particularly difficult battle that Tim was lucky enough to witness. Watching them move together is interesting - it’s clear they’re not exactly on the same page yet in the way they fight separately, but it’s also clear that they’re improving. 

After the battle, Wren stands on the edge of the roof overlooking the unconscious criminals below, silhouetted by the bat-signal on the clouds above. His sword is casually slung over his shoulders, and his free hand is on his hip. He’s grinning proudly down at the aftermath as his cape billows in the wind. 

Right below him, on the fire escape, Batman isn’t looking at the criminals but at his son. There’s no clear emotion, but Tim could see pride in the tiniest quirk of the corner of his mouth. 

It goes in the shoebox that holds the batarang.

  
  
**⤘⤘⤘ -**

If there’s one thing Tim absolutely hates, it’s galas. The suit Jack and Janet stuff him into is uncomfortable, as the collar is too tight and the fabric doesn’t breathe. That, and all of the Gothamites pinch his cheeks and talk _at_ him instead of _with_ him, like he’s some little kid. Which, admittedly, he kind of is, but hey. It’s rude.

But going to the gala means Tim’s parents are home, so he supposes he has no right to complain. At least they want him with them. 

Tim (discreetly) adjusts his collar for the thousandth time tonight. He’s taking a break at the buffet table, busying himself with selecting Janet-approved snacks to dissuade anyone looking to talk to him. Everyone either wants to use him to try and get dirt on his parents or butter up to them. 

So far he’s talked to twenty different individuals, sixteen of which were important figures among the elite that Janet shoved him in the direction of. It’s exhausting playing the part of ‘rising heir of Drake Industries’. Everyone wants to know what his plans for the company are.

Tim has no freaking idea - he’s _nine_. He doesn’t even know what he wants to do for his latest school project. Which is due in two days on Thursday. Tim is really going to have to crack down on that if he wants to keep his parents in a good mood during their stay. 

“This party _sucks.”_

Tim startles, nearly dropping his plate of tiny sandwiches. 

The young boy that appeared next to him flinches as well. “Geez! Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Uh, it’s no…” Tim trails off as he gets a proper look at the other kid’s face. 

It’s Duke Thomas, the boy Bruce Wayne took in a few months ago. His parents lost their sanity in the latest Joker attack, and Mr. Wayne made him his ward not long afterwards. Tim remembers his parents tutting about it when they saw it on the news.

( _Doesn’t he already have a son? Taking in another one at such a young age is utterly preposterous_ -)

( _Not to mention common filth -_ )

“You good?” Duke asks. His accent is unique from anyone else’s here - it bleeds Narrows. Which would make sense, as that’s where he’s from. 

Tim jumps again. “Yeah! Yes, I’m sorry. I was lost in thought.”

Duke smiles warmly - Tim almost smiles back. 

“It’s no problem, I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that.” Duke grabs a plate and starts piling random sweets on it. Tim watches him grab an absolutely delicious looking cookie, then frowns down at his own meager plate of bland appetizers.

“Here.” Duke drops one of the cookies on his plate. “These are really good.”

Tim immediately puts it off and hurriedly says, “Oh, no thank you.”

“Are you sure? You looked pretty miserable with your...cucumber sandwiches.”

“Yes, I’m sure, thank you.” Tim glances over his shoulder to see if his parents saw that. No one is there except random elites, and he allows himself a small exhale of relief. He may be able to eat whatever he wants when he’s home alone, but around his parents...

Duke gives him a weird look, but shrugs and says, “Suit yourself. So. what’s your name?”

“Timothy Drake. But, um, you can call me Tim.” 

“Nice to meet you, Tim. I’m Duke.”

Tim just barely bites back the ‘I know’ on the tip of his tongue. He nods awkwardly and shuffles his feet. Small talk was never his strong suit, and in all honesty he has no idea how to talk to another kid, even if said kid is...how old is Duke? Eleven, if Tim remembers correctly (he does), which means he’s two years older than Tim. Older kids are easier to talk to than the ones around Tim’s age, who are often far too immature to hold a proper conversation with. 

“So…” Duke says as awkwardly as Tim feels. “Is this your first gala?”

Tim shakes his head. It’s his twenty-ninth.

“Cool. This is mine. Bruce thought it’d be good to get me out of the manor and socializing, or whatever.”

Tim holds back another ‘I know’. He knows way too much about other people. Politely, he prompts, “How are you liking it?”

“I’m not,” Duke snorts. “I feel like I’m suffocating in this suit, and all of the people here are stuck up rich assholes that don’t think I can hear what they’re saying behind my back.”

Tim whips his head around to see if anyone heard the swear. It doesn’t look like anyone did.

“Though the food is pretty good.” Duke takes a bite of cookie as if to prove his point. Tim definitely does not watch longingly, wondering what it tastes like. 

“If you don’t like rich people, then do you not like Mr. Wayne?” Tim immediately wants to take the words back. They just slipped out. If Janet or Jack heard him ask that so blatantly, it wouldn’t be pretty. 

Duke gives him another odd look, and Tim realizes Duke didn’t tell him who ‘Bruce was’, and Tim is pretending he didn't know who Duke was beforehand. 

“I-I mean, you mentioned that Bruce brought you here, and there’s only one Bruce that I know of that would attend galas,” Tim rambles, “And it’s not that I think you’re ungrateful or anything, I mean he did take you in but I don’t know what he’s actually like and for all I know -”

“Tim,” Duke says gently. He bumps their shoulders together. “It’s okay, you didn’t offend me or anything. I’m not mad.”

A nervous smile flickers across Tim’s lips. Sometimes he really wishes he knew how to shut up. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s cool. But no, yeah, Bruce is great.” Duke’s smile strengthens. “He’s actually super nice, unlike the people here.”

Tim has to agree with that. He’s only talked to Mr. Wayne once or twice in greeting when his parents wanted to make an impression, but from those short interactions Tim could tell that Mr. Wayne is a genuinely kind person. He never talks down to Tim, or at him, and his smile is always real when it’s focused on Tim. Despite Mr. Wayne’s flamboyant persona, Tim can tell there’s an authentic character hiding behind the loud laugh and too-bright smile. 

“Although…” Duke’s smile fades. “To be honest, I’m kinda worried he took me in as a...what did he call it...a publicity stunt.”

“Did Mr. Wayne call it that?” Tim asks, alarmed. That doesn’t sound like him.

“What? No! No, Bruce is chill. It’s his _son_ that said that. And the media and whatever, but that’s all gossip."

His son - ah, Damian Wayne. The stories Tim has heard about _that_ kid…

Duke grimaces, seemingly reading Tim’s expression. “Yeah, Damian is a piece of work. All he’s done since I arrived at the manor is call me a ‘charity case’, ‘publicity stunt’, and ‘Thomas’. Which is just my last name, but you should hear how he says it.”

“He doesn’t seem to be the most...pleasant person to be around,” Tim says. “I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

Duke waves his hand dismissively. “Eh, it’s fine. I’ve got a thick skin from growing up in the Narrows and all. His insults are kinda weak.”

A less nervous smile crosses Tim’s lips. 

“Plus,” Duke continues, “I think I can break him. For all of his ‘I'm the blood son, I'm the best, bow down weaklings’ act, there’s a decent person in there. Deep, deep in there. I just gotta wear him down and _make_ him like me.”

“Good luck,” Tim says, and finds that he means it. 

Duke grins at him. This time, Tim smiles back.

They stand in comfortable silence until Tim says, “I don’t think Mr. Wayne would take anyone in as a publicity stunt. He seems like the type of person to take someone in because he cares, not for media attention.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.” Duke bumps their shoulders together again. “Thanks, Tim. You’re pretty cool.”

Warmth blooms in Tim’s chest and he blushes. No one has ever called him ‘cool’ before. Does this mean Duke is his friend? Probably not - they’re just making bored conversation, but just for a moment Tim would like to pretend.

The conversation continues, and for once Tim finds himself relaxing as he talks. Somehow they steer into the ‘hobby’ subject. Duke mentions he likes to write,and Tim offhandedly mentions his interest in photography. Duke latches onto the comment, and, through extensive prompting, Tim tells him about the fine points that go into each photo. Duke seems genuinely interested.

It goes on like this for some time, until a new voice interrupts Tim in the middle of explaining negative space.

“I see you’ve made a friend, Duke,” says Mr. Wayne as he steps out of the crowd.

The tension that’s bled out of Tim during his conversation with Duke snaps back into his form like a rubber band. 

“M-Mr. Wayne! Good evening,” he says quickly, trying his best to act formal and _not_ look to see if his parents are watching. Duke stuffs a mini cake in his mouth and waves. 

Mr. Wayne smiles at him - it holds a touch of concern, which is strange. “It’s nice to see you again, Tim. How have things been?”

Tim ignores the flutter of happiness he feels at the fact that Mr. Wayne remembers him. “Perfect, Mr. Wayne. And you?”

“I’ve been well.” Mr. Wayne plucks a champagne flute from a passing waiter and takes a sip. “I see you’ve met my ward, Duke.”

“Yes, Mr. Wayne. He’s good company.”

Duke rolls his eyes and elbows him. “What are you, a robot? Relax, it’s just Bruce.”

‘Just Bruce’ Tim’s ass - or, uh, butt. He’s talking to one of the richest people in the _world._

Mr. Wayne chuckles. It’s a deep, rumbly sound that instantly comforts Tim, for whatever reason. 

“It’s alright, Duke. Though, Tim, you _can_ call me Bruce if you’d like. There’s no need to be so formal.”

“Um…” Tim glances at Duke out of the corner of his eye. “Okay, Mr - Bruce.”

Mr. Wayne’s smile becomes impossibly kinder as he asks, “What were you two talking about?”

“Tim was just telling me about negative space,” Duke says. 

Mr. Wayne raises his eyebrows. “You’re into photography, Tim?”

“I...uh...I dabble in it from time to time,” Tim says as if he doesn’t spend hours perfecting his skill as he sits on cold rooftops waiting to snap a picture of Gotham’s vigilantes. Like a stalker. Which he is.

“Dabble?” Duke says incredulously. “You just went off for a full fifteen minutes about exposure and composition.”

Tim flinches as his insides shrivel from his own cringe. “Sorry.”

“Aaaa,” Duke lightly shakes one of his shoulders, “stop apologizing! I didn’t mean it like that, it was legit interesting.”

Tim chews on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Sorry.”

“Okay, now you’re just doing it on purpose.”

Mr. Wayne laughs as Tim shrugs a shoulder, unable to keep the tiny smile down any longer.

Duke opens his mouth, likely to make a joke, but his smile slides right off his face as his gaze catches on someone in the crowd. “Oh, great...blood son, incoming.”

Right on cue, Damian Wayne breaks through the crowd and marches right up to Mr. Wayne with a bark of, “Father, I demand we leave this infernal gathering at once!”

The mirth in Mr. Wayne’s eyes drains and he sighs. “Damian,” he says with the control of an _extremely_ patient parent, “we still have an hour left until we have to leave, as I told you fifteen minutes ago.”

Damian crosses his arms and scoffs, “Tt.”

Tim freezes.

Hold on.

Hold. On.

Did he hear that correctly? He couldn’t have, it’s literally impossible.

But...wait, the heights and skin tones match up, but it could just be a coincidence. An impossible one.

“Thomas,” Damian says as he scans Tim with a disapproving sneer. Even through his internal panic, Tim feels like a particularly disgusting bug about to be stepped on. “I see you’re fraternizing with the drivel.”

Duke smiles, though it’s much less nice than the ones he gave Tim. “It’s okay, Damian, no need to be jealous. It’s not your fault you can’t make friends - oh, wait.”

“I do not need to make ‘friends’ with children.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re a kid.”

“I am a _teenager.”_

“ _Pre_ -teen, _Dami_.”

Mr. Wayne claps a hand on Damian’s shoulder to keep him from lunging. “Boys, no fighting at a gala. Damian, be the bigger person, as we’ve discussed.”

Damian looks like he’s considering ducking out of his father’s hold and attacking anyway, but he steps back with another “Tt.”

It hits Tim like a physical blow.

Just one could’ve been written off as a coincidence, but two...and the sound rolls off of Damian’s tongue with too much ease to be random. 

There’s no possible way Tim can rationalize it. Standing here, in front of Damian and Mr. Wayne, all he can do is compare them to Gotham’s vigilantes. They’re the right heights and builds, the skin tones match, the amount of money Batman’s gear would need to be made adds up, and they’re father and son...it makes perfect sense.

Bruce Wayne is Batman.

Damian Wayne is Wren. 

Tim can’t _breathe._

“-im? Tim, are you alright?” Mr. Wayne is asking. 

Tim blinks, realizing that Duke and Mr. Wayne - _Batman -_ are watching him with concerned eyes. Damian - Nightling, he’s _Wren -_ is studying his cuffs with blatant disinterest.

“W-What?” Tim eeks out around the panic expanding in his chest. The ballroom is too small. Or too big? There’s too many people either way, and the dynamic duo is _standing right in front of him,_ Tim spends his free time _stalking_ the Waynes - 

“I was asking if you’re alright, chum,” Mr. Wayne - Bruce, _Batman -_ says. “You’ve gone pale.”

Has he? That’s a surprise. Tim feels like he’s overheating. No, he’s definitely cold, no, warm. He’s burning up and freezing at the same time. Does Duke know? He has to, he _lives_ with Batman and Wren. 

“F-Fine, I’m fine,” Tim says far too quickly. His hands are shaking so badly that he’s shocked he hasn’t dropped the plate of sandwiches yet. “I, uh, I think my parents are w-waving me over, excuse me.”

With that elegant excuse, Tim hurries away at a pace just barely able to be considered polite and squeezes into the crowd, ignoring Duke’s call of, “Tim, wait!”

Batman and Wren are attending this gala, with Tim. They have been for nearly two years. Tim has talked to both of them - he just had a full conversation with Batman’s _ward._

Oh, god...Batman knows Tim is into photography. Had the conversation gone on, Tim might have let it slip that he stalks Batman and Wren _to Batman and Wren._ There’s no way he would have ever recovered from that.If they somehow catch Tim when he’s in Gotham taking pictures of them, they’d know exactly who he is. 

Tim bumps into someone and stumbles over his mumbled apology. At some point his plate slips from his hands, but Tim can’t focus on the shattering of porcelain or the startled mutters of displeased elites. His head is spinning. His thoughts are far too loud, and he can’t _breathe._

A hand grabs his arm and tugs him to a stop. Tim almost pulls away from the acrylics digging into his skin, but freezes as his mother snaps, “Timothy! What on earth has gotten into you?”

Tim blinks owlishly. “I...what?”

“I called your name at least three times, weren’t you _listening?”_

“I - I’m sorry, Mother, I didn’t m-mean -”

“Stop stammering.”

Tim slams his mouth shut. 

Janet rolls her eyes. “Goodness, Timothy, pull yourself together. Your behavior is unfitting of a Drake.”

“I apologize,” Tim says. He firmly plants his feet on the ground to keep himself from swaying as the room spins. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling too well.”

“Yes, I gathered as much.” Janet scowls and tightens her grip on his arm. “Bruce Wayne approached me asking if you were alright. You _know_ not to show weakness to powerful figures like him.”

Batman asked her that? Oh, god...Tim feels like he’s going to throw up. It must show on his face, as Janet scoffs and starts tugging him through the crowd. It’s all he can do to not pass out or throw up as he stumbles along.

Tim is distantly aware of his mother speaking with his father, and a few minutes later they’re headed for the entrance. Even as his parents complain about him making them leave the gala (“Sorry,” Tim keeps mumbling), he feels a rush of relief as they step into the cool night air, away from the stuffed ballroom where Batman and Wren are. He doesn’t begin to properly breathe until they’re driving away.

How can Tim ever go to another gala when they’ll surely be there? How can he go into Gotham to _photograph_ them?

It’s a small relief when Jack and Janet tell him that they won’t be taking him to galas until Tim can prove that he’ll be on perfect behavior. Tim just nods against the cold glass of the car window and tries to will the stress-induced nausea away. It doesn’t work.

Jack and Janet lecture him all the way to Drake manor, not that Tim cares or listens. Once they get home and excuse him, Tim flees to his room, locks himself in the bathroom, and vomits into the toilet. 

He rests his forehead on the cool porcelain and waits for his body to stop shivering. It takes over an hour for him to peel himself off the floor and stagger into his bedroom. He doesn’t sleep that night, but he doesn’t move from his place under the covers, either. 

The next day Tim spends hours going over his photographs, comparing them to photos of the Waynes he finds on the internet. Like he thought, they’re a perfect match. It sends him into another spiral, but he’s able to calm himself before he can pass out from shortness of breath. 

Once he feels mentally ready, he pours over articles and theory boards. Some people propose the idea of Bruce Wayne as Batman, but those people are always laughed off. Brucie Wayne, bumbling playboy as the _Batman?_ Ridiculous. Up until a day ago, Tim would’ve laughed too. 

He’s not laughing now. 

As far as he can tell, no one else has figured out who Batman and Wren are. 

It’s just Tim.

It’s _just Tim._

One little kid among millions - _billions -_ knows the identities of Gotham’s vigilantes. 

Tim takes his favorite picture out of the shoebox with the batarang in it. He stares at the red and gold accents of Damian’s uniform, then at the grays and blacks of Bruce Wayne’s. Nausea rises in his throat, so Tim shoves the pictures back in his closet, closes his laptop, and doesn’t even think about Batman for weeks. 

It takes him months to gather the courage to go back out to photograph the dynamic duo again. It’s the only interesting thing in his life - Tim can’t just give it up. Despite his new anxieties, photographing vigilantes is still his favorite hobby. He’ll just be more careful than before.

Tim is careful to avoid the Waynes in every gala he goes to. The only Wayne he can’t avoid is Duke, though Tim can’t really complain about that. Luckily they don’t attend every gala, and half of the ones they _do_ go to Tim is too busy to talk to Duke, much less run into him. When the other Waynes get close Tim drops an excuse and disappears. 

School is tough, too. Both Duke and Damian attend the same private school that Tim does, but the cluster of buildings is big enough that they’re easy to avoid. Sometimes Duke sits with Tim at lunch, when their schedules line up, but that’s about it.

Duke is becoming a good friend of Tim’s - his only friend, actually. They don’t interact often, but Tim treasures every interaction. Up until Duke starts talking about his adoptive family. Then Tim tries not to panic and tries to steer the conversation back into safer waters.

One time Tim is invited to Wayne manor for dinner.

The thought of having Batman and Wren's attention, not to mention going _into their home,_ has Tim feeling sick all over again. He politely declines.

Eventually, Duke stops asking.

  
**⤘⤘⤘ -**

Lark makes his debut as Gotham’s daytime hero when Tim is eleven. 

It takes Tim one glance to realize it’s Duke. 

Tim still doesn’t avoid him at school or galas, but it sets off a jumble of nerves whenever Duke mentions something akin to having ‘other activities’. 

Having to lie to Duke (omissions of truth are basically lies) about not knowing who the bats are makes his stomach tie into knots with guilt and shame, but it’s better than losing his one friend. 

**⤘⤘⤘ -**

Only six months later yet another vigilante hits the streets, this one named 'Orphan'. A few weeks after her debut Bruce Wayne reveals to the public that he's taken in yet another child, this one named Cassandra Cain.

Yet again, it's not hard to connect the dots. It seems like vigilante-ism is a family business.

Cassandra doesn't go to many galas, and at the ones she does attend she tends to stick close to Mr. Wayne and Damian, oddly enough. Tim rarely gets a chance to speak with her - well, speak _around_ her. She doesn't seem to know how to talk, but she seems content to listen to Duke and Tim's occasional conversation.

Tim considers her his second friend.

**⤘⤘⤘ -**   
  


Shockingly, for his dozens of outings into Gotham over the years, Tim has only been attacked four times. The first was when two teens tried to steal his shoes. The second was when some street kid beat him up for cash. The third time Tim broke his camera running from an angry drunk.

This is the fourth.

Tim forces his legs to pump faster as he whips around corners and leaps over obstacles. Not for the first time he thanks the parkour classes he started taking a few months ago. 

What he _doesn’t_ thank is his stupidity, which allowed him to photograph a fight between Lark, Batman, Wren, Orphan, and Scarecrow. It’s rare to see Lark out at night, so Tim was more than willing to get uncomfortably close to the battle to snap some good shots. Unfortunately, he stepped wrong and tripped over a garbage can, which alerted a couple of Scarecrow’s henchmen. They must have been bored, because they immediately started chasing him. 

The pictures Tim took better be worth it.

His lungs scream for air as he scrambles over yet another fence and nearly falls when he lands on the other side. The Narrows isn’t his usual hunting ground, and now he’s paying the price. Nowhere should have this many fences and obstacles. Somehow the henchmen are still on his tail, and Tim wonders if Scarecrow gives them some sort of enhancement drug. It would explain why - _focus, Timothy._

Tim tears through a night market, accidentally knocking over baskets of goods and shoving people out of the way. He doesn’t have the spare breath to apologize, so he does it mentally as enraged cries echo after him. The cries turn to frightened yelps as the henchmen follow Tim’s path of destruction.

At this point Tim is pretty sure he’s going to be caught.

He _knew_ this obsession would get him killed one day.

Tim skids to a stop at a crossroads. Left alley, or right alley? Both are terribly obstructed.

Above him is an open window, and by the looks of it, he can reach it. He glances over his shoulder, where the sound of the henchmen grow louder. The mystery window sounds much more appealing than getting beaten to death by Scarecrow’s thugs.

Tim scrambles onto the fire escape, ignoring the burn in his muscles and the fact that he can barely breathe, hoists himself up, and all but flings himself through the window.

He stumbles into whatever room the window leads to - right into a flying brick, which knocks him out on impact.  
  
  


“Hey. Pssst. _Hey.”_

Someone is poking Tim’s cheek. 

“Oh my god, please don’t be dead. I really don’t need to deal with that right now.”

Tim groans and rolls away from the voice. His head is _pounding._

“You’re not dead! Great, good to know I did _not_ murder some kid.”

Whoever this person is, make her _shut up._ Each word drills into Tim’s skull like a particularly painful mosquito. He groans again and tries to wave her off.

She scoffs. “Rude. Hold on.” There’s the sound of her standing up and walking away, muttering under her breath. At last, blissful silence. Tim waits for the pounding in his head to recede before he cracks his eyes open.

He’s laying on a dingy carpet in an equally dingy apartment. It lacks normal furniture like couches and shelves, and the three chairs around a broken table have duct-taped legs. There’s a few piles of boards laying around. It’s like someone intended to refurbish the room but never got around to it. 

Tim slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, using the wall as back support. He scrunches up his nose as the skin on his forehead pulls uncomfortably. He brushes his fingers along his temple and something comes off on them - it’s blood.

Okay.

Tim is bleeding. Well, not anymore, but he was. It wasn’t for the first time, definitely not the last, but usually Tim remembers how he got his injuries. Lets see, he was running from some of Scarecrow’s goons, climbed through a window, and…

“Hey, look at you, up and aware.” A blond-haired girl steps into the room, holding a water bottle.

Tim squints up at her. “You hit me with a brick.”

The girl shrugs as she sits down cross-legged in front of him. “I thought you were some creep coming through the window to attack me.” She snorts. “Which would’ve been ridiculous. You’re, what, five foot nothing?”

“Four foot five,” Tim grumbles.

“Even better.” She hands him the water bottle. He cracks it open and takes a grateful swig. “So, I think we got off on the wrong foot here.” She holds out her hand. “Sup. I’m Steph. Sorry for throwing a brick at your face.”

Tim rolls his eyes and shakes her hand. “I’m Tim.”

“What brings you to the Narrows, Tim? Being chased by Scarecrow’s dirtbags, no less.”

“Photography,” Tim says. Hm. He probably shouldn’t have - Oh no. No, no - “Where’s my camera?”

Steph reaches behind a stack of boards and drags his camera bag out. Tim heaves a sigh of relief and takes it. He unzips the top and takes out his camera to inspect it. It looks like there’s no damage, and the card is still in it’s slot, thank god. If Tim had lost that...it wouldn’t have been good. He gently places it back in the bag.

“So.” Steph wrinkles her nose. “Photography in the Narrows. Why?”

Tim shrugs. “It’s where Batman is fighting Scarecrow, so...yeah.”

Her eyes go wide. “Are you telling me you came out here to catch pics of the Bat?”

Ah, shit. Tim didn’t think before speaking, like an idiot. Eloquently, he says, “Maybe.”

“Ha!” Steph punches him in the arm.

“Ow! What is with you and hurting me?”

“You’ve got guts for such a scrawny kid.”

Tim scowls at her. “You’re not much bigger than me.”

“Dude, I’m pretty sure I tower over you. How old are you, anyway?”

“Eleven.”

“Twelve,” Steph replies smugly. “What’s it to you, pipsqueak?”

“Well, thank you for your help,” Tim says, pushing himself to his feet and dusting off his cargo pants to mask his irritation, “but I should be going.”

“Aw, don’t be like that.” Steph stands with him - to his dismay, she’s nearly a full head taller than him. “Plus, I don’t think some Bristol kid should be wandering around the Narrows alone with an obvious head wound.”

Tim’s scowl deepens. “You _gave_ me this wound. And I’m not from Bristol.”

“Uh, yes you are. Your shitty attempt at a normal Gotham accent doesn’t cover up the fact you talk like an aristocrat.”

“Okay, fine, I’m from Bristol.” Tim shoulders his camera bag and frowns at the smoggy night sky. No doubt the bats are still fighting Scarecrow. 

Steph crosses her arms. “So, rich boy, do you want to get that wound looked at or what?”

“You have supplies?”

“No, but I have a friend - acquaintance, actually, that does. We’ll pop by, make sure you don’t have brain damage, then get you back to your cozy mansion.”

Manor, not mansion, but Tim doesn’t correct her. He doesn’t think he has a concussion, weirdly enough. Probably. Yeah, he should get his head checked out. The only problem is he isn’t sure if this girl actually means well - for all he knows she’ll lure him into a trap where he’ll be held for ransom. He chews the inside of his cheek.

“C’mon, we can go get a snack after. Running for your life tends to make a pal hungry.”

Tim could eat...and in all honesty he’s not getting bad vibes off of her, and he trusts his gut. He sighs. “Okay, lets go.”

“Yay!” Steph slides across the room to open the door, revealing a dim, crumbly hallway. “After you, my good sir.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “I’m not paying for the food.”

“Uh, yeah you are.”

“You hit me with a _brick!_ I’m not paying for you. _”_

“It was out of self defense! Really, _you_ owe _me_ for scaring me shitless.”

Tim huffs. He has a feeling this is going to be a long night. “Fine.”

“Nice.” Steph closes the door behind them and nudges him. “While we’re eating you can show me your Batman pictures.”

“Absolutely not.”

  
**⤘⤘⤘ -**   
  
  


Wren vanishes off the streets during Thanksgiving break when Tim is twelve, and for that long, agonizing week, he fears the worst.

Being a vigilante is a dangerous line of work, especially in Gotham. 

The thought of Wren getting killed is sickening. Over the years Tim has grown to idolize him. With his drive, confidence, skill, and compassion towards innocents...it’s hard not to look up to him. 

Not to mention the fact that he’s the leader of the Titans. The _leader._ That in itself is absolutely extraordinary. Even with Abuse, Superboy, Nobody, and Beacon on the team, _Wren_ \- a normal human - is the boss. That speaks for his skill and prowess all on its own.

Since Duke has shared his and Cass' progress in dragging Damian out of his shell, Tim has grown to care for him as well. From a distance. The stories Tim has heard are cringy at worst, and endearing at best, but they paint a picture of a strong character and an inherently kind person. Apparently he’s still rough about the edges, but Duke has proved what he once said to Tim. There really is a decent person in Damian. 

Tim can’t wait for the break to be over so that he can find a way to ask Duke where his brother is. It’s killing him not knowing. When Tim goes into Gotham to visit Steph and has a nervous breakdown over it, she smacks him upside the head and tells him to chill. They get milkshakes and trade theories over it, and Steph tells him that she’s pretty sure Wren isn’t dead. Their conversation eases his mind, but not by much.

When the break finally ends, Tim finds Duke sitting at their usual lunch spot on the first day back at school. It consistently shocks Tim that a fourteen year old like Duke actually wants to hang out with a twelve year old, but then again most of the kids at this school don’t want to associate with the ‘Narrows kid’. Their loss - Duke is an awesome friend. 

“Hey,” Tim greets as he sits down on the bench.

Duke nods as he takes a bite of his sandwich. Made by Alfred Pennyworth, no doubt - the snacks Duke has shared with Tim that the butler made are always phenomenal. 

Tim frowns and shoves down the worry bubbling up in his stomach. Duke is already all out of sorts. Usually he greets Tim with a smile and starts chatting immediately, but he seems so...despondent.

“How was your break?” Tim asks.

“Shitty,” Duke grumbles. “Damian’s gone.”

That doesn’t necessarily mean dead. Tim struggles to keep calm as he prompts, “Gone? How do you mean?”

Duke huffs and throws his hands up. “He and Bruce got into a huge fight over...uh, some important stuff -”

Code for vigilante work.

“- and he _left._ Like, _moved out._ ”

The rush of relief that slams into Tim makes him lightheaded for a moment. Wren isn’t dead, thank _god._

Duke scowls at his sandwich like it personally offended him. “He just packed a bag and dipped.”

“Do you know where he went?” Tim asks.

Duke hesitates. “Uh...no.”

Ah, so wherever Damian went relates to vigilante work as well. Interesting. 

“I’m sorry he left,” Tim says. “I know you two were close.”

Duke laughs humorlessly. “You say that like he’s _dead_ or somethin’.”

Tim winces. “Sorry. Really though...are you okay?”

“I guess. It sucks that Dami’s gone, and Bruce and Cass are fucked up over it, but we’ll survive.” 

“Well...if you need anything, let me know. Even if you just need to vent.”

Duke tugs him into a brief hug, and for those short few seconds Tim blanks. He hasn’t gotten a hug in...wow. He doesn’t even remember. 

“Thanks, man,” Duke says, smiling at him. “You’re a real one.”

Tim returns the smile. “Anytime, Duke. Speaking of which -” he digs around in his backpack and proudly holds up his brand new phone.

Duke gapes. “Bro. No _way!_ Your parents finally let you get a phone?”

“Mhm. Since my thirteenth birthday is in two months, my parents got it as an early present before they left.”

“They’re gone _again?"_ Duke scowls. “Dude, you should really stay at the manor. We have the space.”

“Ms. Mac is going to be staying with me for most of the time,” Tim lies. In reality he’s going to see her once a week when she drops off groceries, and the rest of the time he’ll be completely alone. 

Duke doesn’t look like he believes him, but says anyway, “If you say so. Still, we can hang out at your place from time.”

Tim smiles. “Text me and we can figure out a plan.”

“Awesome.” Duke grins and makes grabby hands. “Gimme your phone so I can give you my contact info.”

Tim opens his phone, goes to contacts, and hands it over. He waits patiently as Duke punches in his number. 

“There we go,” Duke says. He hands it back right as the bell rings. “Perfect timing. Text me later, yeah? Maybe we can do a study session this weekend.”

They both stand and sling their backpacks over their shoulders. 

“I’d love that,” Tim says. “See you around.”

Duke salutes as he backs away. “Until tomorrow, Timmy.”

  
**⤘⤘⤘ -**   
  
  


Batman is getting more violent, to the point where Tim is starting to worry. 

Duke mentioned that Bruce is broken up about Damian up and leaving, but Tim never expected it to bleed into his vigilante life. It doesn't help that Orphan is getting violent as well, and Lark can't abandon Gotham during the day to keep Batman in check. 

Whatever happened between Bruce and Damian, it must’ve been bad. And now Batman is spiraling, and no one is there to catch him. 

Tim spends days worrying about what will happen to Batman. Already the city is becoming wary of him again as more people turn up beaten bloody, even for mild crimes. If nothing is done about this...Batman might cross the line and kill someone.

That can’t happen.

Tim can’t let that happen.

There is one thing Tim can do, but...does he want to do it? 

His phone screen is the only thing lit up in the dark of his bedroom. Tim stares down at his messages with Duke, considering what he’s about to do. The text is typed out, ready to tell Duke that Tim knows everything and he wants to help.

There’s no one else that can do this. Tim is the only person outside of the Waynes that knows about their secret lives, so for once in his life he can _do something._

It won’t be permanent - just until Batman’s mental state stabilizes and he goes back to normal. 

Tim doesn’t want to be Wren. 

But there’s no one else. 

He sends the text. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm probs gonna extend the Steph & Tim snippet into a full separate oneshot to explore their friendship. I also might do one about the gala from Damian's perspective. There's some interesting stuff to explore there. 
> 
> Comments fuel me, pls, i'm starving for validation
> 
> Kick me off a cliff @ [Batshit-Birds](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/batshit-birds) on Tumblr


End file.
